


Because He's Worth It

by kelios



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Rape, Underage Prostitution, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 15:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelios/pseuds/kelios
Summary: Dean doesn't regret anything he's done to keep Sam safe.





	Because He's Worth It

**Author's Note:**

> For Thorkiship 
> 
> Sorry I forgot about this one, Izzy!

When Dean does this, he never thinks about Sam. He can’t. This isn’t Sam’s fault, Sam would never ask him to do this. And he doesn’t want to see this when he looks at Sam, at the best, purest thing in his life. He just makes his mind as blank as possible _yessir nosir $25 to suck you off $50 if you want my ass_ until he can’t take any more and he can go back to their motel room. 

That’s when he lets himself think about Sam. 

Food on Sam’s plate.   
Clothes on Sam’s back.  
A roof over Sam’s head.   
Anything Sam needs that Dean can give him, which isn’t everything, not by a long shot, but it’s enough. It has to be.

They don’t have anything fancy. Despite what Pretty Woman implies, standing on a street corner doesn’t pay that well, and the kind of bastard who wants to fuck a kid in a dirty alley is usually also the kind of bastard who’s willing to knock said kid around and toss a few bills in the dirt, regardless of what they’d agreed upon, laughing while he scrambles to pick them up. 

Dean hates it. Hates _them_. But he swallowed his pride a long time ago, salty and bitter and thick, and he can handle taunts--plenty of that growing up, after all. Black eyes, the taste of blood when he swallows, the bruises on his hips and the burn in his ass that lasts for days--he’s had worse, he tells himself, and sometimes he believes it. Even at fourteen none of them could hurt him if he didn’t let them, and most of the time he believes that, too.

It’s the other ones that really get under his skin. _So pretty,_ they croon, thumbing away his tears as he chokes on a thick cock, forced deep into his throat. _You don’t deserve this, you’re better than this,_ whispered in his ear, counterpoint to the bruises they dig into his flesh as they split him in half and work his limp cock almost painfully. Ironically, they’re the ones most likely to stiff him altogether, as though their _compassion_ should be reward enough. 

But Dean takes it all, willingly. Someone has to support them, and Dean is determined that it will never be Sam. Sam will never even know if Dean has anything to say about it--and he’s the oldest, so his word goes. That’s what he tells Sam when his little brother whines that he wants to go to the movies, too, or that he’s bored watching TV by himself. _Do your homework, practice your Latin, don’t open the door for anyone_ , met by Sam’s mutinous pout that turns into an outright scowl as the years pass and Dean’s tried and true excuses don’t satisfy him anymore. 

 

He’s been doing this long enough to tell, most of the time, when someone looks like trouble. But there are times-- _$50 on the table, and nothing but a hard look and “As long as it takes, Dean” growled back when he asks John how long he’ll be gone this time_ \--there are times when desperate times call for desperate measures, and today, with Sam burning up with fever and John ignoring his calls, Dean has never been more desperate. Desperate enough to take a john he knows is trouble, desperate enough to cry and beg when his buddies walk in, harsh smiles and harsher fingers. But not desperate enough to put them in the hospital when they shove him over the arm of the couch, when his throat is fluttering around a thick, stinking cock, when he’s gasping and puking over their laughter. Because it’s worth it. 

For Sam, it will always be worth it. 

Until the day Sam decides it’s not. 

They’re stuck in another rundown no tell motel. John’s been gone for weeks, Dean hasn’t eaten in two days. He’s too old to really make good money at this anymore, but he’s always been good at looking younger than he is. Sam scowls when Dean tells him he’s going out but doesn’t look up, his eyes glued to the secondhand laptop Dean had taken half a dozen dicks up the ass to pay for. He’s been distant lately, sullen and angry, even moreso now that he’s graduated high school. Dean wishes he knew how to get through to him, but lately he can’t feel anything but the phantom ache of hands on his hips, the raw scratch of too many dicks too far down his throat and too far inside him, too tired to do anything but collapse when he gets in, reeking of sex and cigarettes and despair. But Sam needs him more than ever, eating his body weight daily, demanding money for tests, for _stuff_ , for so many things. He never asks where the money comes from, just takes it with a muttered thanks and goes back to his laptop, ignoring Dean’s tired teasing about porn and geeks. 

But it’s worth it, Dean tells himself as he lets himself back in, staggering a little because one of the fuckers had slipped him a tab of E, stuck between the sweaty, salty fingers he’d shoved between Dean’s lips with the curt order to get them wet. Dean smiles a little dopily at the motionless pile of blankets on the other bed and collapses on his own, not even bothering with a shower this time even though Sam will bitch about how he stinks the next morning. He’d earned enough to cover their room for another week, buy groceries, and maybe cover the text books Sam had been nagging him about _I can’t go to college, but I can still educate myself, Dean_ ever since he graduated two towns back. The E had loosened him up, and the patrons of the bar he’d been working had been happy to shower him with bills when he’d worked the amateur pole set up in the middle of the stage. The hum in his blood chases him through his dreams when he drifts off, and he wakes up the next morning slightly hungover but still happy. 

Sam is still sleeping. That puts a damper on Dean’s mood that quickly turns to panic when he notices that Sam’s bag is gone. Two quick strides bring him to the bed and he rips back the blankets, already knowing what he’ll see--pillows under the sheet, and a note pinned to the mattress. 

_I’m leaving, Dean,_ Dean reads emptily.   
_If you even notice I’m gone, don’t bother looking for me. I’m going to make something of myself, and I’m better off on my own.  
Sam_

The note flutters to the floor as Dean stares into space. He turns around slowly and carefully, walks back to the other bed and lies down, ignoring the aches starting to make themselves known. 

It was all worth it.


End file.
